The Holiday Games

Chapter 18

eighteen

. . .

Leo

N ew York City is a shapeshifter, a veteran of the stage capable of dashing into the wings, changing costumes, and appearing a second later as a villain, a hero, and everything in between.

This city has helped make my dreams come true, laughed at me when I was kicked to the curb, and offered solace in my darkest days. It has sheltered me in its cramped comedy clubs, inspired me with its ever-changing neighborhoods, and assured me there will always be a place for misfits in the city that never sleeps.

But today, New York City is really going out of its way to remind me why I never want to live anywhere else.

Today, my city is a wise, old matchmaker nudging the lovers together at every turn, angling for a classic happily-ever-after.

As Caroline and I reach the Met’s “in storage” collection, tucked away in a pocket of the museum only accessible by a handicapped elevator near the sculpture garden toilets, the city arranges for us to be the only people wandering through the glassed-in shelves.

“I can’t believe this,” Caroline murmurs, pausing by a painting of a young mother kissing the blond curls of her child at the edge of a field. They’re drenched in orange and pink sunset light, lost in a moment together as the woman’s husband drives the sheep home behind them. “This should be in the main collection. It’s stunning. How dare they banish it to a place no one even knows about?”

“So we can enjoy it in peace and tranquility, without any screaming school children asking if there’s a dead body in the sarcophagus?”

Caroline turns to me, her eyes wide as she whispers, “There are dead bodies in the sarcophagi. Lots of them. I asked a docent about it the first time I came here in college. Now, I can’t walk through the Egyptian wing without getting a stomachache.”

“Same,” I say. “But I still walk through there. Sometimes, it’s good to be reminded that time is fleeting.”

“It is.” She moves farther down the aisle, studying the treasures packed far more tightly together than in the rest of the museum. “So, what do you want to do with the rest of your fleeing time, Leo Fenton? What dreams do you want to see come true before you shuffle off your mortal coil?”

“Always with the easy questions, Caroline Cane.” I exhale a laugh. “I don’t know. It’s not any one thing really, it’s more…” We stop in front of a gorgeous rocking chair from the 1920’s, all graceful curves and polished wood far too beautiful to sit in. “There’s a phrase Jewish people say after someone’s passed—may their memory be a blessing. A couple of years ago it suddenly hit me that in order for my memory to be a blessing, my life has to be blessing first.” I sigh. “I guess I want that. To live in a way that makes it easy for people to say ‘his life was a blessing’ when I’m gone and mean it.”

She slips her hand into mine, giving it a squeeze. “You’re doing a great job.”

I glance down at her, my heart skipping a beat when she lifts her soulful eyes to mine. “Yeah?”

She nods. “Yeah.”

“You barely know me, Ms. Cane,” I say, but she only smiles.

“I know you, Mr. Fenton,” she says. “I feel like I’ve known you for a very long time. I’ve just been waiting for you to show up. Where have you been?”

“Lost,” I whisper, shocked by the tightness in my throat and the emotion swelling in my chest. Who is this woman? And how can she disarm all my defenses with a word and a smile? “But I think I might be just about out of the woods.”

“Me, too,” she says, giving my hand a final squeeze before she glides away, asking over her shoulder, “So where’s that Picasso you were telling me about?”

“End of the aisle and turn right, then two aisles down,” I say, watching her hips sway, wishing I wrote poems instead of jokes. If I did, every one would be about her.

About her heart and her mind and her smile and…her butt.

What can I say? Even at my most romantic, I’m still a butt man and Caroline’s is an ass of unparalleled beauty.

“You know Picasso was an asshole, right?” she asks, pausing at the end of the aisle to gaze back at me.

“Yeah. Horrible misogynist. Probably a narcissist, too. Grade A prick all around.” I shrug and lift my hands at my sides with a grin. “But I love his work.”

She laughs. “Me, too.” She arches a brow. “You coming?”

“I am,” I say. I would follow this woman into an un-airconditioned subway station in the dead of summer, let alone to see a special, hidden Picasso, tucked away in a case just for us.

As we wander the rest of the overflow collection, we debate how much we can—or should—separate the art from the artist. We talk favorite impressionists, share our love of large form sculpture, and extol the talents of Paul Cadmus, an underrated queer modern artist from the early twentieth century.

“So beautiful and sexy and grotesque,” she says, her gaze tracking over one of his pieces inspired by the Seven Deadly Sins.

“I don’t know whether to lick it or throw up on it,” I agree, making her laugh.

She loops her arm through mine again. “On that note, how about a sandwich in the sculpture garden café? My treat? I need more than a scone to keep me going until dinner.”

“How about the best ramen you’ve ever had instead?” I ask.

“I love ramen,” she says. “The spicier the better.”

“I know a hole in the wall not far from here where you sit elbow to elbow at a cramped counter surrounding the kitchen, watching the chefs make your bowl. It’s decorated entirely in disco memorabilia from the 70s, and the hostess is really abusive. I’ve seen her swat people with her cane if they don’t sit down fast enough.”

Caroline exhales a delighted gasp. “Yes! I love a hole in the wall and an abusive hostess.”

“I thought you might.” I beam down at her. “Taxi or fifteen-minute walk?”

She scoffs. “Walk. Always. Unless the rain is coming in sideways. There’s nothing better than walking in New York City. Best free entertainment in the world.”

“Agreed,” I say, marveling that she just keeps getting more perfect with every passing moment.

Or more perfect for me, anyway.

At the ramen joint, we order flaming hot bowls of miso and shoyu and share the bounty between us, giggling as two businessmen take too long reading the menu outside and the hostess shoos them away with her cane and a sharp warning. “Not for you! If you can’t smell this noodle is best noodle in city, not for you!”

“I mean, she’s right,” Caroline whispers, capturing a perfectly boiled bit of bok choy between her chopsticks. “This broth has ruined me for all other broth. It’s heavenly.”

“And sinus clearing,” I agree. “Which will come in handy for the next stop on our adventure.”

Her shoulders inch toward her ears as she does a happy shimmy in her seat. “Yay! I love this tour.” She leans in, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek. “Thank you, Leo. I’m having the best time.”

I turn toward her, wanting to kiss her so badly it’s physically painful. I lean closer, but my nose has yet to brush hers when the hostess shouts inches from our ears. “You finished? We need chairs. Our customer like early dinnertime.”

Moving apart with a wince and a grin, we turn back to our food, finishing up and settling our bill with a speed that earns us an approving nod from the tyrant by the door on our way out.

“So cute and so terrifying,” Caroline murmurs as we head east. “She reminds me of my accounting professor in college.”

I shudder. “Accounting. Hell, no. Numbers are evil.”

She arches a brow. “Numbers are dependable. Spreadsheets are a little evil, but only until you learn how to use them. Now, I actually enjoy making a spreadsheet for our monthly meeting. It’s the one time I feel truly indispensable.”

“I find that hard to believe,” I say. “You’re a hospitality powerhouse.”

“Not really.”

I huff. “Says the woman who’s headed to a spa because she dominated the challenge today.”

She grins. “I did dominate, didn’t I?”

“Like a boss,” I say. “It was impressive to watch.”

“Thanks, it felt good,” she says. “But it’s not like that back home. Our inn isn’t busy or fast-paced, and Kayla’s so much better at charming the leaf peepers and Christmas fanatics.”

“So, you might not be a Reindeer Corners girl for keeps?”

She glances up at me. “Maybe not. Even a few days ago, relocating wasn’t anywhere on my radar, but…things change.”

They do change. I’m changing faster than I would have believed possible. As we board the cable car to Roosevelt Island, a little visited slice of peace between Queens and Manhattan, I’m pretty sure I could be happy anywhere, as long as this woman was beside me. Yes, I love New York, but I love the way I feel when Caroline snaps a selfie of us dangling over the East River more. Her cheek pressed to mine feels…right.

“I usually hate having my picture taken,” I say, as she shows me the shot. “But we look pretty good together.”

“We’re cute,” she says nudging my knee with hers. “Am I clear to send it to Kayla later? I’m sure she’d appreciate a picture of this Leo guy I’ve been talking about.”

My lips curve. “You’ve been talking about me?”

“I have. And she had a few thoughts about the Vivian situation.”

“Do tell,” I say as the car nears the end of the line.

“Later,” she says. “I think it’s a subject best discussed over a rib eye with truffle butter reduction and a side of caramelized root vegetables and honeyed parsnip mash.”

My brows shoot up. “Where are we getting that? Because that sounds fucking amazing. I’ll make the order now and have it delivered to my place promptly at seven.”

She grins. “It’s already done. I ordered the groceries while you were paying for ramen. Everything I need to cook you my signature dish will be arriving at your place at seven fifteen.”

We step out of the cable car and move down the ramp leading onto the island. “You’re going to cook for me?”

“I am. I would do homemade pasta with fresh mushroom ragu, but that’s a much more time-intensive process.”

“I think I’m in love with you,” I joke, but it’s not a joke, and I’m pretty sure she knows it.

That she knows, and isn’t even a little bit scared…

“And you haven’t even heard about my buttery, flaky, brown-sugar coated Dutch Baby,” she says, taking my hand. “My Dutch Baby brings all the boys to the yard. And the girls. Kayla once offered to marry me if I’d give her the recipe, but I can’t. It’s a Frost family secret. That was my mom’s maiden name, before she married Dad.”

I shake my head. “Frost? Seriously? Could your family get any more holiday-themed?”

She rolls her eyes. “If I’d married a tree farmer with ‘Christmas’ for a middle name? Yes.”

I squeeze her fingers tighter. “Thank God you dodged that bullet.”

“Thank a Rockette, you mean,” she says with a grin. “I was actually thinking of going to see the show. I owe that woman one, and I do love a kick line.”

“I’ll get tickets for Thursday night,” I say.

She bites her lip. “Should we? Are we playing with fire spending this much time together off camera?”

“Maybe, but…I don’t care. You’re here. Now. And I don’t want to waste a second.”

“Me, either,” she says, leaning her head against my shoulder as the holiday lights flicker on above Roosevelt Island’s artsy Main Street.

And just like that, I’m happier than I’ve been in…

Well, maybe… ever .

All my rough edges suddenly feel smooth. The jagged puzzle pieces I’ve been trying to jam into place slide together with ease. It’s so easy to fall in love with this woman. So euphorically, blissfully easy. She’s a drug I could get hooked on for life, and I already know I’m never going to want to come down.

We wander in and out of galleries and a store selling handmade wool sweaters before reaching Eden, the next stop on my tour. The flower shop is a true gem, packed to the gills with the freshest, most fragrant blossoms in the city. We spend a half hour sniffing roses, magnolias, and exotic orchids before buying an herbal tea at Eden’s in-house tea shop and heading back onto the street.

Outside, the winter sky is already dark, but the island is ablaze with gas lamps and holiday decorations that light our way as I guide Caroline past the ruins of the smallpox museum.

“A bonus tour stop,” I say, pausing beside the gate surrounding the structure. “They fenced it in a while back so you can’t climb around inside anymore, but I still love a ruin. I wish New York had more of them. Like Rome.”

“I’ve never been to Rome,” she says gazing wistfully up at the remains of the old hospital. “I’ve never been anywhere, really. Just Vermont and here for school and down the Cape a few times with Kayla before things got serious with her boyfriend, and he took my place in the spare bedroom. He proposed to her yesterday, by the way. She said yes.”

“Mazel tov to them both,” I say. “Assuming you approve of the match?”

“I do. They’re wonderful together. I think they’ll be very happy.” She shifts her gaze to mine, adding in a softer voice. “What do you say we cut this tour short and head back to your place? As much fun as this has been, I think I’d like to be somewhere warm and cozy with a purring cat in it.”

“I can’t guarantee the purring, but I’ve got the rest of it covered,” I say. “We can catch the subway. Less fun than the cable car, but we’ll be at my place in under twenty minutes.”

“Amazing,” she says.

It is amazing. Waiting for the subway, chatting on the way across town, stopping to buy a bottle of wine on the way back to my place—all the humdrum, everyday things feel special when I get to share them with her.

I already know there’s no way I’m keeping my hands or my feelings to myself tonight. It’s not a question of if I’ll break our “just friends” vow, but when.

She’s too beautiful, too magnetic, too mine .

At least, I want her to be. Fuck Vivian and the past and the fact that we come from such different worlds. Fuck the reality show and our quasi boss-employee status. Suddenly all that seems small, silly compared to the way I feel when she kicks off her shoes by my door and scoops my evil cat into her arms.

And, of course, he purrs.

For her.

And that’s it, the final straw.

The moment Caroline sets Greg down on the floor, I reach for her, pulling her into my arms.